Misbegotten
by Neurotic Verse
Summary: In Draco Malfoy's seventh year, he finds himself a reluctant Death Eater. In Ginny Weasley's sixth year, she finds herself part of a project that could save him from it. What happens when two born to be enemies become something else?
1. One: The First Attack

Disclaimer: Not my toys, not my toybox. Everything belongs to the fab JK.

Notes: DM/GW. Eventually. This is my first attempt at a fanfic even though I do read copious amounts of them in my spare time and do write quite a bit of original stuff on my own. So, if I'm doing anything wrong, please tell me, babe! I'm a massive HP fan, but, in true me-style, I tend to like minor characters a lot more than major ones (though Harry is kick-arse, don't misunderstand me). It's going to be a bit dark, I have to warn you.

**misbegotten**

a neurotic verse joint

**one**

the first attack

Draco Malfoy was only half-hearing the chatter around him. Parkinson trying to coo into his ear, Crabbe and Goyle grunting incomprehensibly at each other, Zabini brushing her hopeless hair all into her breakfast. He didn't want to pay attention to them, but even less did he want to pay attention to the numb burning in his arm, the numb burning that Lucius (he could no longer use the word _Father_) had assured him would only worsen if he ignored it. He had to go that night, there was really no question of it. Lucius would come get him, he couldn't Apparate even though he had already taught himself how. 

He picked idly at his toast and tea but ultimately he couldn't eat any of it, not with all that thinking in his head. He felt inestimably old, he knew that someday Zabini and Parkinson and Crabbe and Goyle would be dealing with this, too, but at seventeen he felt too young for it. Certainly, there were mornings when the owl post brought a death notice to an unfortunate student, but those incidents were rare. Everything about the war, to everyone else, didn't exist at Hogwarts. He had a Quidditch practice the next afternoon, which was dishearteningly incongruous with what he had to do before it. He left the table without even commanding Crabbe and Goyle to accompany him, which was a rarity in itself, and he felt their eyes on him as he left the Great Hall. He needed no sycophant ears for this.

Draco thought he knew, finally, how the burning unanswered could drive men mad. He had felt it only for a night and a small portion of day and already his head was spinning with magical pain beyond his ability to describe. He was about to go and be early for Charms but then he thought about his father again and choked. Teasing mudbloods and halfbloods and muggle-lovers was one thing, an enjoyable if not cruel distraction, but this evening he actually had to go and _see _everything, and he didn't think he would find it funny like he had at the World Cup a few years before. He turned around rigidly, thinking that was best to skip class and go back to his dormitory, even though the review for the Transfiguration first term exam was in two hours and he was already behind in his practice.

Ever since he had been marked three weeks earlier, he had waited for the summons with a mixture of fear and weakness and a sick desire to fall back into his father's favour. He was considering the best way to appear unafraid in front of Voldemort (bow, stand resolute, crawl and kiss the Dark Lord's robes?) when someone came down a half-hidden stairwell and knocked right into him.

"Oh … _noooo._" It was the Weasley girl, and she had been carrying a rather wide cauldron, the contents of which were now sloshed all over the corridor. "Snape is going to murder me – that was my term project! Why don't you watch where you're…" she trailed off once she realized who had bumped into her. "Go away, Malfoy," she said resignedly.

The tone of her voice made him cringe. It wasn't angry, only accepting, as if she were expecting him to start screaming at her. Which, he realized, he probably would have,any other day. He felt inexplicably angry. Stupid useless girl. "Sod off, Weasley," he said simply, and continued walking down the corridor, glancing over his shoulder long enough to see her looking perplexed as she tried to clean up the spill.

He put her out of his mind and went to the Slytherin dormitory, where he lay on his bed and stared at the ceiling and walls, all decorated in silver and green, and tried not to think about his father or Voldemort or anyone. It didn't work. He rolled over and pushed his head into his monogrammed pillow and wished for oblivion. It didn't come.

***

"Miss Weasley, you're five minutes late."

Ginny shuddered. She hated the sound of Snape's voice. It seemed ironically unfair that the only subject in which she performed beyond average was also the one taught by the cruelest professor. She set her cauldron down on one of the dungeon's desks and tried to smile in the face of her professor's yellow grimace. "I'm sorry. I – I tripped and fell." There was no point in mentioning Malfoy, the slimy bastard was Snape's favourite pupil. "I spilled half of the potion but it should still be good – I mean – what I have left should still be good."

"I see." Snape tapped his long fingers on his desk. "Yet I appreciate punctuality. Five points from Gryffindor for wasting my time. Bring it up so I can look at it," he ordered, indicating the cauldron.

Ginny lifted it. It was bad enough being in his class, but every student had to come meet him one-on-one regarding their term projects. It was an appointment feared by every Hogwarts student. She set the heavy cauldron on his desk and watched breathlessly as he peered at the silvery liquid. She had worked so hard on it, done so much research, and any other teacher would have been proud, but Snape was an entirely different matter. When he said nothing after a minute, she could stand it no longer. "It's a basic healing potion," she explained, "but it works much faster than an ordinary one. All I did was brew it with hummingbird nectar as an additional ingredient and then cast a speeding charm on it. When you drink it, wounds disappear almost instantaneously. Its practical applications would be – er – not forcing mildly injured people into an infirmary stay."

"I see."

She really wished he would stop saying that. Remembering the photograph in her pocket, she fished it out and showed it to Snape. "It's Ron," she said nervously. "He got hit by a Bludger in the shoulder on Monday's practice, so I tested it on him." Both of them watched the picture as Ron, who was smiling uncertainly at the camera, pulled his robes aside, to reveal a massive, yellowish bruise, and then drank the potion. The bruise shrank and vanished in less than a second. "See – normally he'd have had to go to Pomfrey for at least an hour. But it only takes care of outside cuts and bruises, not things like broken bones and internal bleeding, but I'm working on—"

Snape held up a hand. "Enough, Miss Weasley," he said warningly. 

"Sorry," she mumbled.

"Though it is simple," he said slowly, "it's also quite useful, and certainly a preferable change from the overwhelming amount of love potions that my sixth years have chosen to experiment with." His lip curled at this. "Perhaps it is not an ambitious potion, but, then again, most experimentation begins generally, not specifically. You have brewed it well and I am certain Madam Pomfrey will appreciate your research. Ten points to Gryffindor for an excellent term project."

Ginny gaped. A reaction like this from Snape was like getting the absolute highest praise from any other teacher. "Th—thank you, sir!" she exclaimed, forgetting herself slightly. "Thank you very much." She started to pick up her cauldron and leave, feeling very relieved and imagining what Ron would say when she told him.

"One more thing, Miss Weasley."

She bit her lip and waited for the reprimand. _Stupid to think he'd just give you points and let you go on your merry way. _She put the cauldron back down and stuck her hands into her pockets.

"I am presently working on my own research commissioned by the Ministry of Magic," Snape said levelly. "It is a large task and contains information that currently remains classified. Headmaster Dumbledore is allowing me take on two students of my choice as assistants, and no one in Slytherin has your – proficiency for healing potions." It appeared as if all of this had been very difficult to say, as Snape's face was looking fairly dangerous.

She was floored. "You want me – to assist?"

"Yes," Snape said. "You would, of course, be exempt from the second term project in Potions, as the research would count towards that. It would likely also raise your overall grade in Potions, and, judging by the mediocrity of your other grades, I should think that pursuing potion-making would be a prudent decision for you." He was sneering a bit. 

Ginny wondered briefly at how he managed to make everything an insult. But he was right, she should accept, she really wasn't great at anything else, and even with Snape she _enjoyed _Potions, enjoyed the odd beauty of creating draughts and elixirs, enjoyed the careful, methodical precision it required that seemed to elude so many of her classmates. Working with Snape might not be fun, but if she did it and did a good job of it, maybe she could go to university for Potions, and then get a decent job like Percy and Bill and Charlie. She loved her mum but there was no way she'd ever be just another housewitch, and here was an opportunity staring her straight in the face. "All right," she answered, trying to sound as gracious and grateful as possible. "I'll do it."

Snape nodded curtly. "Meet me here at six o'clock next Monday." He snarled a bit. "And be on time. This will get you anything you like from the library," he added, scratching out a note to Madam Pince that would allow her to access the Restricted Section. He rubbed his arm idly after writing. Ginny raised her eyebrows – she had heard the rumours like everyone else – but she left without saying another word. 

She was vaguely disappointed. He had not told her what his research entailed; of course, it was easy to infer that it was in healing, but that was not enough to satisfy her curiosity. She found herself anxious to learn more, then grinned in spite of herself. _Bet this is the first time anyone's ever looked forward to seeing that slimy git._

***

"Draco! Draco, open up!"

It was that bloody Pansy Parkinson again, simpering at the door. He had taken her to every ball he had been to at Hogwarts, mostly because his family would find her suitable even with her squished-up face, and even kissed her a few times out of obligation. This, apparently, seemed to merit her always trying to get near him and clinging to him. He thought of her arms snaked around him like malevolent octopus tentacles. He wasn't going to answer.

"Draco, your father's in the Great Hall – he's waiting for you!"

Draco sat bolt upright. It couldn't be night already – could it? He pushed his curtains aside, and, sure enough, there were stars glittering over the late November snow. _Bloody hell. _He gritted his teeth to keep his face impassive and pulled his long dark green cloak (the most expensive one Gladrags offered) over his shoulders. His father didn't like to be kept waiting, especially by the son he seemed to constantly criticize.

Lucius Malfoy had his back turned when Draco entered the Great Hall, which had already been cleared of supper. Draco's stomach rumbled insistently at the thought of food, but Draco ignored it, belatedly realizing that he had eaten nothing except a few bits of toast and egg at breakfast. Instead, he focused on his father, looking at the long stream of silvery-blond hair he had once so desperately wanted to emulate on his own head. "Hello, Dad," he said softly.

"Son." Lucius tipped his head. "You're late."

"Father." Draco returned his father's ice-cold tone. "I was preparing." It was a lie, but it seemed to work, for Lucius started towards the door without any further criticism. Draco shook his head and followed, trying to calm the hammering in his heart. Hell, he was going to see people _die _tonight, he had a right to let his heart go. He jogged a bit to keep up with Lucius' long stride.

"You're looking forward to this, I trust?" Lucius asked softly, just so the two of them could hear.

"Yes. Yes, of course I am."

"Don't disappoint me."

"I won't." Draco stuck his hands into his robes, so Lucius wouldn't see them shaking. They said nothing else the rest of way, just allowed the thick and uncomfortable silence to hang neatly between them as they left the Hogwarts grounds, as Draco held Lucius' hand briefly to Apparate (Draco had instinctively not told his father he knew how), as they flickered into existence before a stately castle Draco had never seen before. When he had taken the Mark, it had been in a dark and quiet forest a hundred times scarier than the Forbidden Forest, only for its silence. "Is this … the house of Lord Voldemort?" Draco let the question escape his lips before he remembered to avoid Lucius.

"What else would it be?" Lucius said in a bored drawl. "Come on, we won't be late."

Even Draco was taken aback by the majesty of the castle; the tapestries and statues and paintings made the ones in Malfoy Manor look like cheap imitations, and the ones in Hogwarts like absolute junk. Normally, he would have berated himself for having such uncharitable thoughts about the possessions of his family but on this day it didn't matter. "I thought he wouldn't live – like this." _I thought he'd be in hiding. _But that was stupid, he was powerful, and he didn't need to stay low.

Lucius gave an odd grin. "The castle belonged to a rich wizard, before the last war. Good taste. It's too unfortunate he was a muggle-born. Made his fortune in stocks, I'm afraid. Awful way to get money." He chuckled. "Do not worry, though, there are enchantments around it. Only those who are welcome are able to enter."

Draco found this decidedly not comforting, but he said nothing. Lucius swept into a grand ballroom decorated in lush red and burgundy, and it was here where the Death Eaters were gathered. All were dressed in black robes, but none wore masks yet. Draco recognized most of them – there was Crabbe's father – and Goyle's – the dimwitted expressions were dead giveaways – there was Nott, who always came to his family's parties – there was Avery, the Ministry executioner who had been set to kill Hagrid's bloody Buckbeak four years earlier. 

"Here," said Lucius, and Draco turned to see him holding up a set of robes for Draco to step into. Draco kept his face stony and dropped his cloak onto the floor (where it was whisked away by a house-elf), then placed his arms into the sleeves. Lucius then handed him a mask. "No need to put in on yet," Lucius advised. "Though I know you must be anxious."

"Yes," Draco managed. He clutched the mask tightly. He was by far the youngest among them; everyone else had served in the last war. He glanced around the room, scanning the faces. His arm was still burning, even though he had arrived, and abruptly he wanted it to stop. 

Then, in a flash of light and smoke, Voldemort appeared at the head of the room. Draco looked at him, really looked at him for the first time. The night he'd gotten the Dark Mark had been clumsy and mysterious, as he'd spent most of it squinting to see in the darkness, but now he could look at his master's face in clear light. Voldemort was like a cruel pastiche of a man, a parody constructed of limbs and eyes and too-shiny skin.

At the Dark Lord's feet, just like he had been at Draco's marking, was Peter Pettigrew. Pettigrew wore a mask but Draco could tell it was him by the silver hand poking out of his robes. One by one, the Death Eaters shuffled forward like obedient dogs, each mumbling and kissing the hem of Voldemort's robes. Draco did the same when it came to be his turn, and, when he was bent low, the Dark Lord's not-really-human face smirked at him. "Young Malfoy."

Draco didn't like that knowing smirk, but he tipped his head and closed his eyes.

After every man and woman had stepped forward, Voldemort drew himself up to his full height. "Put on your masks," he commanded. Draco watched as every Death Eater placed the traditional mask over their faces, and, before he forgot himself, he did the same.

"Tonight you shall get you want," Voldemort intoned. "There are a pair of muggles in Leeds with a mudblood son at Hogwarts, and we have to show the boy that filth like him will not be tolerated." Lazily, he drew his wand out. "I want the muggles killed." He said this as if he were ordering tea at a restaurant. Then, he flicked his wand, and Draco was no longer in the elegant ballroom, but in a kitchen. In an ordinary Muggle kitchen with all its strange electric gadgets, surrounded by a dozen or so Death Eaters.

It was quiet. It was possible the muggles in question weren't home. Draco didn't know what to wish for. He didn't like muggles, that was really no secret, but he had no desire to see them killed. He felt himself being dragged along by his father and the others, up a flight of stairs, over ordinary carpet and past ordinary decorations, into a bedroom. 

The muggles were there, both asleep, both unaware. One of the Death Eaters – Draco couldn't tell which one, not with the masks on – stepped forward with his or her wand out and pointed towards the woman. Draco tried to squeeze his eyes shut, but they seemed to remain open of their own volition. He could not look away.

"_Imperio!_" shouted the Death Eater, and suddenly the woman's eyes flew open, wide and unblinking. Her husband sprang awake as soon as the spell was cast, but even before he could scream another Death Eater stepped forward and placed a Body-Bind curse on him.

Draco watched, horrified, as they forced the woman under Imperius to pick up her pillow and then suffocate her bound husband with it. The man couldn't move with the curse, but Draco could hear his breathing, heard when it stopped. The woman's eyes were huge and horrified – she knew what was happening, what she was doing, but she was powerless to stop herself. And the Death Eaters were laughing, cackling, even. He shut his eyes behind his mask when his father, who had been standing beside him, stepped forward with his wand aimed at the woman again.

"_Avada Kedavra._"

Unmistakably Lucius' voice.

***

Draco came back to Hogwarts late into the evening, much later than curfew, but he couldn't bring himself to care about teachers with points and detentions to give. Lucius had left him at the gates, and, as far as he knew, his father knew nothing was wrong with him. He didn't know how his son's stomach was turning with fear and disgust.

He couldn't go back to the Slytherin dormitory, not now. Someone might be awake and he couldn't deal with anyone, couldn't look anyone in the eye. He was repulsed to discover that he felt like crying. There was a boys' washroom to his left, and, without really thinking about it, he walked inside stiffly, put his head to the toilet, and retched. He would have vomited, had he eaten anything that day. Then he sat back, not bothering to get up off the floor, closed his eyes, and did not sleep for the entire night.


	2. Two: An Incident in the Corridor

**misbegotten**

a neurotic verse joint

**two**

an incident in the corridor

Ginny had always been good at keeping secrets, so good that it was almost second nature for her. For that reason, once she had gotten back to the Gryffindor common room after her meeting with Snape, she had told no one of her arrangement to assist Snape. Snape had not expressly told her to keep quiet, but for some reason it seemed right that she did. Naturally, however, she had told everyone that she had earned ten points for Gryffindor with her potion (while carefully omitting the five points she'd lost). That attention had been lovely; normally, no one paid much heed to her at all, though Ron did try to be a solicitous brother.

She thought about it as she walked to breakfast the next morning. It was nice to be considered good at something. She would never be like Hermione Granger, but now she had her secret, she was a little more than quiet, boring, unremarkable Ginny Weasley, the last and least impressive of a large family. There was an unlikely spring in her step. It was rare for her to feel special. People at school never treated her badly, really, but everyone in the school knew what she had done in her first year and it had stayed with her. The Gryffindor girls in her year weren't the sort of people she cared to be friends with, anyhow. She felt about them in very much the same way Hermione felt about Parvati Patil and Lavender Brown – they were giggling fools for boys and make-up and _Witch Weekly_ most of the time – and years of living with her family had taught her that make-up wasn't really worth the effort when Fred and George could easily transform it into something resembling a clown face without her noticing.

Ginny arrived in the Great Hall just as the delivery owls were sweeping through the air. She had just taken her place and was about to say something to Colin Creevey, who usually sat with her, when a black owl glided in through the main entrance. All thoughts of her project and herself flew out of her head as a collective gasp entered the room. A black owl meant only one thing – a Ministry death notice. Ginny held her breath as it circled around and landed and dropped an envelope in front of Justin Finch-Fletchley, a seventh-year Hufflepuff whom she had never really spoken to. The Hufflepuff table burst into action, gathering around Justin with words of sympathy and sadness. 

Ron looked stricken beside her. "Poor guy," he whispered.

Hermione looked even worse. "It must have been his parents," she said, wide-eyed. "And he's a muggle-born, like – like I am." She shoved herself away from the table, not taking her eyes away from Justin. "I've got to write Mum and Dad."

Ginny glanced over at the Slytherin table. Unsurprisingly, a lot of them were suppressing smirks. Millicent Bulstrode, who often got a kick out of mocking Ginny's hand-me-downs, was stifling a giggle, even. She snorted in disgust and was about to look away when her eye fell on Draco Malfoy. Now _this _was a surprise. She would have expected Malfoy to be taunting Justin openly, but instead he was looking down at his plate, looking even paler than usual and very much like he wanted to leave. Curious. She watched for a moment longer as he brushed his hand through his (uncombed, she realized) hair. He really did look like hell; his robes weren't sleek and powerful and his hair wasn't pushed back. Then she snorted again. _Probably ate some bad caviar. _He deserved it, too, for being such a hateful bastard and not even apologizing when he'd made her spill her Potions project everywhere.

Justin was now being led out of the Great Hall by Professor Sprout and a crew of Hufflepuffs. Ginny watched his retreating form, all hunched over and crying, and felt a bit sick to her stomach. Sure, her family was pureblood, but she knew for a fact that people like Lucius Malfoy hated her father and his love of everything muggle. She looked at Hermione's empty chair, then at her brother. "Ron – do you think that Dad – we ought to—"

It seemed that Ron had been worried about the same thing. "I know, Ginny. I'm afraid for him, too."

She nodded. It was impossible to concentrate on eating now, so she pushed her breakfast away and drank the rest of her pumpkin juice and fished her Transfiguration book (Ron's old one, naturally) and notes out of her bag. It was one of her worst subjects and she was determined not to flunk it, so the packet of notes was almost as thick as the textbook itself. She left the Great Hall with the books under her arm, still thinking about Justin and the black owl and the odd look on Malfoy's. She couldn't even imagine how she'd feel if her mum and dad were killed. The war seemed so far away when she was at school, and, as far as she knew, You-Know-Who had made no move to go beyond his periodic attacks on less-than-pure families. But, she reasoned, he wouldn't be satisfied with just doing that forever. There would have to be a time when—

Her book and notes were snatched out from under her arm. "Well, if it isn't little Ginny Weasley!" crowed Millicent Bulstrode, who was holding Ginny's things high above her head. Ginny was not a short girl – she was as gangly as her brothers, all arms and legs –  but Millicent was built like a truck and seemed approximately seven feet tall. "Come on, Weasley, jump for your books. We all know you can't afford new ones – just look at your robes."

Ginny flushed a bit at the mention of her robes; they had been Fred's and they were far too big for her. Pansy Parkinson and Blaise Zabini, who were standing behind Millicent, snickered into their hands. Ginny sighed. "Just give me my things back," she said crossly.

"Just give me my things back," Millicent mimicked in a high falsetto. She began to shuffle through the notes. "What, Weasley? No little hearts with 'Harry Potter' written in them? I must say I'm disappointed. Poor Weasley, can't even transfigure properly. Look at all of this." She showed the stack of notes to Blaise and Pansy.

Ginny was seething. She knew it was foolish and risky to get angry, but she couldn't help it. The Harry remark had done it; she had given up hope on that over a year ago and she still caught grief for it. "Excuse me?" she said shrilly. "Excuse me! You barely passed anything last year, Bulstrode. I heard you had to get your mummy and daddy to pay for a tutor! And as far as my robes go, sure, they might be a bit big, but they still wouldn't fit a great stupid bloody beast like you!"

Millicent's rather thin lips formed into a surprised O, but the expression of shock was quickly replaced by one of rage. Ginny barely had time to move before she was pinned up to the wall by one of Millicent's beefy palms. Both Blaise and Pansy had their wands drawn out on her. "How _dare _you!" Pansy was shrieking. "How can a little bit of scum like you even _dare_!"

"Apparently I did dare," Ginny said softly. She was afraid; her wand was stuffed deep in one of her pockets and she didn't have time to fish it out. But she'd be damned if she was just going to cower in front of them. She imagined how Ron would look if he could see her – he would be wide-eyed and smiling, not knowing whether to laugh or just gape openly. "What are you going to do, hex me with the stuff you learned in your remedial classes?" she hissed. Ginny fought to keep her voice distant. She didn't know if Pansy was in remedial, but the Slytherin didn't seem all that bright, and from the look of outrage on Pansy's puggish face, Ginny knew she'd hit a wound.

"You ruddy _Weasley—" Pansy spat this out as if it were the gravest insult in the world. Beady eyes narrowed, she raised her wand high in the air to begin a hex. Ginny closed her eyes and waited for it, squeezing back a small tear that escaped her eye._

"Scared, are you?" Blaise tittered. "Go on, cry, little Weasley."

"Leave her alone," came a tired voice from down the hallway. Four pairs of eyes swerved to see who had spoken, and, to Ginny's utter astonishment, it was Draco Malfoy. He wasn't standing high and mighty; instead, he was slumped against the wall looking very reluctant.

"What?" Pansy turned in surprise. "But Draco—" she whined.

"Don't be an idiot, Pansy. What would McGonagall or Flitwick say if he found you attacking a filthy Weasley in the corridors? Your grades are bad enough; you don't need a detention dragging them down even more." He sighed, seemingly oblivious of the hurt look that clouded Pansy's face. "And I don't want to deal with her idiot boyfriend _Potter _if you do anything to her," he added venomously.

Ginny opened to mouth to protest, but quickly though better of it. Malfoy's silly barbs were better than being hexed by an incompetent Slytherin. She could barely believe it when Millicent dropped her onto the floor – she managed to twist herself so the fall didn't hurt much – and strode off with Pansy and Blaise in tow. She stared up at Malfoy in confusion, but he only looked at her for a second (and it seemed like he wasn't really looking at her at all), then followed his housemates to whatever class they had to get to.

***

It had been a bad move to defend Ginny Weasley, Draco knew. He'd teased and taunted her so many times before. Weasleys deserved it, after all. The Slytherins would know something was up. But he hadn't been able to help it. Seeing Finch-Fletchley get his letter that morning and knowing that he had been among the last people to see his mum and dad alive, knowing he had been part of those who had killed them, had been too much. And when he'd come upon Millicent pinning Weasley up to the wall, he had instantly thought of how much Lucius hated that muggle-lover Arthur Weasley and how likely it was that Ron and Ginny would be getting a black owl of their own soon. He still didn't like the Weasleys, but seeing Ginny held up by that great hulking Bulstrode had set off something inside him. He'd never liked Bulstrode anyway, mainly because she could probably beat him in a fight if she ever was so inclined.

He was fortunate enough to have History of Magic first thing; in spite of everything that had happened, he still hadn't slept in a day and a half and was tired. He put his head into the crook of his arms over his desk, like half the other students, and tried to block out Professor Binns' monotonous voice. It was futile. No matter how hard he tried to knock them out, the images seared into his brain wouldn't go away. Justin's mother – her face, her horrible contorted face as she'd involuntarily murdered her husband. Justin's father – his body bound stiffly, his eyes glassy and lifeless. And, of course, there was Justin Finch-Fletchley himself. The black envelope, the silence in the Great Hall, the stricken look over the Hufflepuff's features. He moaned out loud without being conscious of it.

Professor Binns stopped lecturing. "Mister MacFay, are you ill?"

Pansy was looking at him curiously. It took Draco a moment to realize that he was Mister MacFay. "Er – yes," he said, all-too-aware of every eye on him. He hesitated briefly to regain his customary languid drawl. "Yes, I am feeling rather under the weather."

"Very well then, to the hospital wing with you," Professor Binns said dismissively. "As I was saying, the International Magic Summit of 1734 brought about two key regulations that would later come to affect the monumental decision reached in 1741's summit; the first, effective immediately, being that witches as well as wizards would be allowed into the summit council, and the second being that the council…" Draco slipped out of the classroom.

He didn't head for the hospital wing, nor did he head back to the Slytherin dormitory. Instead, he walked about without really thinking about it, and when he wound up at the doors of the library, he shrugged and went in. The Hogwarts library was much like the rest of school, charmingly haphazard and somewhat labyrinthine. It was nearly empty, seeing as it would be lunchtime soon. Even that Granger mudblood would be at mealtime instead of buried behind her usual stack of books. He strode through the books, letting his fingers trail along the dusty spines as he did. It was a bit of a secret that he liked to read, not because he was ashamed of it, but because it wasn't something Crabbe and Goyle were likely to understand. He mostly liked histories, not the boring textbook readings from Professor Binns, but the lovely exciting stories of Arthur, Merlin, stories like that. Presently, however, he didn't feel much like reading. He pulled a book out at random and found a rather tucked-away corner and sat to look at it without reading it.

Draco didn't like how he felt. It was hard to describe, but the best word he could come up with was _disconnected. _As if he were an observer of own actions rather than the possessor of his own skin. He flipped through the book – it was a manual of wizarding laws – and sighed. Even though the Dark Mark on his arm wasn't burning, it seemed like it was. He put his head down on the old book. _Pull yourself together. This is bloody pathetic. What would Lucius say?_

But Lucius didn't know.

There was a shuffling sound from nearby and he looked up to see the Weasley girl – she was popping up everywhere lately – walking straight into the Restricted Section. What was she doing in there? He waited for a few minutes and then she came out, carrying a stack of books from her waist to her chin. She stopped, turned slowly, and met his eyes. He was surprised to see the expression on her face – instead of the disgust he would expect from a Gryffindor, her face was softened into a gentle bewilderment. _Oh, no. Don't come over here._

But she did, smacking the stack of books down on the table. Draco glanced at them quickly. _Moste Potente Potions_? How odd. Now where had she gotten the permission to take that out? There were more of them, too; old dusty books that looked as if they'd been plucked straight out of the Restricted stacks. He chose not to say anything about it; it didn't really matter if Ginny Weasley had decided to start brewing poisons. 

"Why did you do that this morning?" she asked pointedly.  

He was taken aback by the ferocity in her voice. There was no admiration in her tone, just simple disbelief mingled with curiosity. He formed his lips into a sneer. "Don't flatter yourself or anything, Weasley," he said icily. "You and Bulstrode were blocking my path and I had a class to get to. That's all there was to it."

Ginny appeared unconvinced. "Are you sick, Malfoy?" she pressed on. "Because if you are you ought to get to the hospital wing instead of being a stubborn idiot about it. You'd be back to your normal, horrible self in no time."

"I didn't come to the library to be insulted, Weasley." She really was quite irritating – and presumptuous. "Please leave me in peace." He'd meant these last words to come out forcefully, but instead they managed to escape in scarcely a whisper. He cursed himself silently.

"Fine." She picked up her ridiculous stack of books off of the table. "Fine. Thank you for assuring me that the Malfoy I know and hate still exists. I'd begun to think you were possessed by some sort of benevolence demon." She snorted, but her face was a bit red. "And – thank you. Yes – thank you, Malfoy, all the same, even though you are a bloody bastard." Ginny shifted so the books rested skillfully under her chin and went walking out of the library without looking back him, leaving Draco with a rather surprised expression on his face.

_Thanked – sort of – by a Weasley. Now what would Lucius say? _ 


	3. Three: The Secret Behind the Painting

**misbegotten**

a neurotic verse joint

**three**

the secret behind the painting

"Mister Malfoy."

The words sounded as soon as Draco entered the Potions dungeon. Draco looked up to see Professor Snape looming over him. It was a bit of a secret that Draco didn't really like his Head of House very much; ever since his fourth year he'd had to absorb countless rants by Lucius that always characterized Snape as a villainous turncoat, and Draco couldn't quite knock that out of his head. He hated cowardice as much as anything else. "Yes, Professor?" He simpered passably.

"You will see me directly after class." Snape nodded slightly and began to teach. 

The lesson itself was easy for Draco; he, like Ginny, had always been relatively skilled at Potions. He thought of it as a _cold _subject, always precise and always methodical. Time, space, and measurement were easily encapsulated in a Potions bottle, and that perfection, that flawlessness, could hardly be achieved in any other subject (except for Arithmancy, and he as an advocate of true wizardry did not have much of a sense of mathematics). 

When all of the other students had cleared out of the dungeon, Draco followed Snape wordlessly into his office. He had only been inside it once before, to discuss his sixth-year term project. He was a bit nervous, but the overwhelming feeling inside him was one of curiosity. When Snape motioned for him to sit down, he did so, and waited for his professor to begin.

"I know you dislike me, Mister Malfoy," Snape said finally, and when Draco made a move to protest he held up his hand. "It doesn't matter. I know – I can see – though you may not realize it, I am aware of when the moods of my students change, and you are no longer the young boy who absorbed every one of my lectures as if they were the stuff from which life is sustained." Snape sighed, and Draco flinched with disbelief – it wasn't a sigh of contempt, but one of resignation. "So I can see things. I would be dead if I did not know how to observe. I know your father has likely told you over and over that I am traitorous, that I am not to be trusted. From your point of view, I suppose that is no more than the truth. Am I correct?"

Draco nodded. Ever since Voldemort had risen again, ever since Severus Snape had been exposed as a spy to the other Death Eaters, Lucius Malfoy had constantly denounced the other man. Draco wasn't sure how to feel, but he was of the opinion that it was gutless of Snape to allow himself to remain protected within the walls of Hogwarts instead of nobly facing his enemies. "My father hates you."

"That is obvious to me. And if you feel the same as Lucius, I will not hold it against you. The reason I have called you here has no bearing on how we feel about one another, but it may be of some importance, anyhow. You have a skill in Potions methodology – a carefulness, if you will – that is extremely rare for a student. I wish for you to assist me in my research."

"What sort of research?" Draco asked suspiciously.

"In healing. Since I can no longer spy, since the Death Eaters know of me, all I can do is research. When the Dark Mark is taken, the recipient feels it for the entirety of his or her life. It is maddening when left alone, when a Death Eater does not answer to Voldemort, and it has killed men before. I'm sure you know this all too well."

Draco was astounded. Snape knew about the Dark Mark? He felt strange and somehow bared, as if his deepest heart's secrets had been put on display in the Great Hall. "You – you know?"

"As I said earlier," and Snape's voice suddenly seemed kind (at least what would pass as kind for Snape) and softer, "I am an astute observer of my students." 

"You didn't – you haven't told Dumbledore?"

"No." Snape folded his hands neatly on his desk and looked squarely at Draco with his fathomless eyes. "But do not take that as a relief. You would be hard-pressed to keep anything from Albus Dumbledore."

Draco paled. "The research, then."

Snape smiled thinly. "My research proposes to find a cure for the Dark Mark of sorts. A way in which to make it disappear. You see, it is impossible to be rid of. Frederick Witherfield, who was a Death Eater in the last war, hacked off his own arm in an attempt to have it gone, but the pain was still there – it still existed in his phantom limb. He felt it as if it were still physically there. I strongly believe that the cure, if it exists, lies in Potions. And I have a second motive for asking you – I believe I should be honest – because keeping the school's only Death Eater close by is obviously beneficial."

An image flashed into Draco's mind: himself, armless like Frederick Witherfield, gone mad in a bed in St. Mungo's. And then there was a bit of hope, but he wasn't sure what to make of it or even if he wanted to feel it at all. He'd had no idea of the permanence of the Dark Mark; his father had never said much about it, but, then again, his father answered the burning every time with enthusiasm. He looked at Snape for a moment, took in the man's sallow, too-old-too-early features, his fathomless eyes, his hunched-over back, and had the strong sense that he was viewing his future self.

"Look, boy," Snape growled. "I have no doubt in my mind that someday your father and his coterie will one day instruct you to kill me. I know that. You do not have to become my ally, you do not have to betray your father and your name, but it is possible that you can give yourself another option, something else besides a life of murdering and a possible sentence in Azkaban, or a life like mine, by assisting me in this research."

Snape's words weren't what made Draco decide in the end. It was the memory of Justin Finch-Fletchey's ashen face. It wouldn't be betraying his father. It would be giving him a chance to get out if he wanted to, and maybe even to clear himself if he ever got caught. "I'll do it," Draco said decisively.

"Here, Monday, six o'clock." He was promptly dismissed.

***

Ginny lay flat on her stomach in her dormitory bed, reading _Moste Potente Potions_ surreptitiously. Two other Gryffindor sixth year girls, Caroline Lovegood and Sara Poncey, were playing a game of chess in the opposite corner, but neither of them really bothered to look at her. After all, she was just quiet, plain Ginny Weasley who never wanted to spend her Hogsmeade weekends trying on every bloody thing in Gladrags, instead choosing to joke about in Zonko's and Honeydukes. She really wished Fred and George hadn't graduated last year; they really were hilarious to have about and they were both so good at making her feel great.

She came to the bit about the Polyjuice Potion and chuckled to herself. Ron had told her the secret about Hermione accidentally transforming into a cat – in an effort to cheer her up after the Chamber, actually – and story never failed to bring a smile to her face. Poor Hermione, she supposed dealing with the error and admitting a mistake had been much worse for the brainy, perfectionist girl than dealing with being feline. 

"What's so funny, Ginny?" Sara called from across the room.

"Er – nothing. Nothing at all." She flushed a bit red; she hadn't realized that she'd been laughing loud enough for the other girls to hear. Quickly, she pushed the book under her pillow, and immediately knew she'd made a mistake. 

Sara's gimlet eyes widened with interest. "What are you reading?"

"Nothing!"

"Pretty funny for nothing," Caroline chimed in. "Come on, tell us now, you're not _ashamed_, are you?"

"I bet it's another diary," Sara whispered. 

"An enchanted one, at that!" Caroline added.

"It's not!" Ginny shouted angrily. The matter of diaries was still a sore point with her, even years later, and the accusation stung. She often thought about it, asked herself horrible questions like _how could I have been so stupid _and _what would have happened if someone had actually died. _"I would never—"

"Then what's with the secrecy?"

They were both – _so stupid, _Ginny thought vehemently. As if a diary would look hundreds of years old and be thousands of pages long. Both girls got to their feet, leaving their game of chess abandoned, and started towards Ginny. Without really thinking about it, Ginny grabbed the book, pressed it against her chest, and leapt out of the room. She was in the Gryffindor common room before she thought about how both Sara and Caroline probably now regarded her as insane.

Ron was in the common room, as were a few third years she didn't really know. His Charms text was open on the table in front of him, but the Wizard cards he was shuffling in his hand gave away what he'd really been doing. Her brother was looking at her with alarm. "Ginny, are you all right?" he asked, an eyebrow raised.

"Yeah, I'm fine – there was just – er – a spider in my bed." She knew that would work. Ron absolutely loathed spiders.

Ron's expression changed from surprise to disgust. "Eew – did you kill it?"

"Yeah," she giggled. She loved teasing him about his phobia. It was mean, she knew, but it was also irresistible. "Don't worry. There most definitely won't be a spider invasion in the Gryffindor dormitory, and certainly not involving big, scary, furry spiders with sharp little poisonous teeth that lay eggs in the skin of your cheek to hatch at a later date, possibly while you're asleep."

His reaction was what she expected. "Erk, Ginny, don't give me nightmares!" he protested, only half-jokingly, and threw a sofa cushion at her.

She ducked, caught it, and threw it back. "Too late." She started back to her bed, but Sara and Caroline were still there in the dormitory and probably puzzling out why Ginny Weasley was so nutters. She wanted to keep reading her book – all the fascinating concoctions were simply amazing; why, there was one you could brew to make the weather change however you wanted (which would be perfect for all those ruined trips to the beach) – and she needed to find somewhere to go. Not the library, there would be more prying eyes there, plus the possible annoyance of Malfoy and the other vermin. 

She passed the Fat Lady and decided to find a new place. There were study rooms and such all over Hogwarts, and she would really have no problem finding a comfortable, unoccupied one. She turned left and hopped up a staircase. She peeked into one room to see a boy practicing Charms; in another, she saw Hermione Granger with her nose typically stuck in a huge book. 

Ginny smiled and leaned against the wall, splaying her fingers across it, and suddenly it shifted behind her. She whirled around to see a her hand on a painting, but it was unlike the other paintings in Hogwarts. It seemed deep, even deeper than the ones in which people like Sir Cadogan roamed about. Her hand was specifically touching a small violet flower on the far left of the picture, right in the centre of the petals, and, when she pushed forward, she was surprised when the painting proved to be as insubstantial as air. Her hand was actually going right through it. Curious. It was a secret door, she guessed, one she'd somehow managed to open. It would be stupid to step right into it, so she yanked her hand out and just pressed her face inside.

The small, hidden room inside wasn't much to look at. Stone walls, a fireplace, a chair and a rug. A strung lantern for reading, she was pleased to note. There were hundreds of these sort of enchanted rooms in Hogwarts, some that were well-known and some that had remained unchanged for centuries, and she supposed this was as a good a place to study as any. It had probably belonged to another student once; someone who had taken the time to magic themselves some semblance of privacy. She stepped inside, still clutching the book against her, and, after taking a moment to light the fireplace, settled into the chair – it was shockingly comfortable – to read. This, she mused, was perfect. No distractions, no annoyances, no sounds of Sara and Caroline chattering away to each other. She fervently hoped no one else knew about this tiny room; it suddenly felt like her own hideaway and she didn't want to share it.

She opened the book to where she had been. After the Polyjuice Potion, there was an instruction sheet on how to make the Draught of Living Death, which made a person appear dead even if they weren't. Kind of like the potion in that old Muggle play she had loved so much as a younger teenager – _Romeo and Juliet_, that was it. She wondered what William Shakespeare would have thought it he'd known that his fictional creation wasn't fiction at all, the decided that he would probably have been quite tickled by it. There was a sort appendix to the instructions – a history of incidences in which the Draught of Living Death had been used, and she was pleased to note that it hadn't been often. It seemed a dreadful thing.

After about an hour, she fell asleep in the chair, and forgot about supper. At about nine o'clock, she woke up, rather bemused that had fallen asleep so quickly, and went back into the Gryffindor dormitory feeling cheered and contented.

***

Draco's arm was burning again.

It had started just after supper, just as he had been trudging back to the Slytherin rooms with a mind full of questions. He was bit irritated with himself – why had he agreed to work with Snape? He would have to keep it from Lucius. It didn't feel quite like being traitorous, and he always had the option of subtly ruining the research if he liked, and that was comforting. It was like being a spy himself. 

The burning was awful, more because of the anticipation that the actual sensation of it. He knew that in the morning, there would be a letter for him, from Lucius, detailing where and when. Tomorrow would be Friday. He'd likely be going home for the weekend, back to Malfoy Manor. 

He wondered, perversely, who it would be this time, which unworthy pieces of filth Voldemort had targeted, and if anyone else would be getting a black envelope during Monday's breakfast. It was a strange sort of fascination, and the fact that it repulsed him seemed to draw him even closer to it. This was disturbing, of course, so he shoved it away to think about later, or perhaps forget entirely if could manage that.

Draco passed his fellow Slytherins without acknowledging them, missing the doubly befuddled looks he got from Crabbe and Goyle – were there any other sort, from them? –  and went into his room to think. Unbidden, the memory of the Finch-Fletchleys returned to him. Somehow, he knew it would be there for the rest of his life, and all he really could was try to not remember it, which only meant that it would still be there, only covered arbitrarily by a thousand fleeting thoughts. He fell into an uneasy sleep and dreamed of his first year at Hogwarts, when he had had nothing to worry about except how much he'd hated Harry Potter and his friends, and how dearly he'd wanted to play on the Slytherin Quidditch team and beat Potter's socks off.


	4. Four: The Second Attack

**misbegotten**

a neurotic verse joint

**four**

the second attack

Breakfast on Friday was always a desultory sort of meal; there were few classes on Fridays and it was not uncommon for upper-year students, with clever mixing of electives, to schedule Fridays completely off. It was also a Hogsmeade weekend, and quite a few students had shucked off responsibilty in order to get a head start on the fun. The Slytherin table was half-empty; many students had already gone home, and many others had lazily slept in. Draco, however, ignored the tea as it came out, instead waiting, white-knuckled, for the owl post to arrive.

There was the usual murmur of acknowledgement as the owls came fluttering, except this time their wings sounded louder, pulsing and beating the blood in Draco's ears. He bit his lip – drew blood without even realizing it – and Lucius owl swept down in front him, stood on the table, and neatly dropped an envelope onto his empty breakfast plate. On it was the unmistakable Malfoy seal; the painstakingly-rendered serpent that Draco had looked at as a boy and thought remarkably intricate, remarkably beautiful, full of power and promise.

He snapped it open.

_Dearest Draco,_

_Please be advised that you will be returning to Malfoy Manor this weekend. Permission has been granted. You are expected by Floo at precisely five o'clock this afternoon. Your mother and I shall be waiting._

_Your Father and Your Blood_

_Lucius Malfoy_

It was cold and informal, and at odds with the 'dearest' used in the greeting. Draco wondered at the parting line – it was traditional among older wizarding families, but Lucius had never used it before in a letter. He folded the letter neatly and slipped it into his pocket, darting his eyes about to ensure that no one had seen him reading it.

His eyes darted over to the place of Justin Finch-Fletchley at the Hufflepuff table, which was empty, but not because old Justin had finished his winter term early, or because he had possessed the foresight to pencil in a sleep-in day at the end of the week – oh no, Finch-Fletchley was absent from his place because he was in St. Mungo's being medicated and therapy-filled to death. 

"Someone's joining you, Finchy," he muttered under his breath. The most frightening part was that Draco wasn't even sure how he meant the words, and his mumbling had held a strange mixture of resignation and malevolence. Pansy and Crabbe, who were the only other Slytherin seventh-years at breakfast, stared at him questioningly. He shoved himself away from the table, letter safe in the folds of his robes, and then he wasn't sure if what he was softly doing, as he walked away, was laughing or crying.

***

Ginny came sailing into the Great Hall and plunked herself ungraciously beside Hermione and across from her brother. She was late for breakfast, mainly because she had pretended to be asleep until Sara Poncey and Caroline Lovegood had finished their morning primping. She'd thought they'd _never _stop; seriously, it was ludicrous to spend so much time using Cosmetic Charms every day, not to mention a waste of energy. Ron nodded at her and said hello through a mouthful of egg, then swallowed. "Where were you last night at dinner?"

"Erm – nowhere, really. I wasn't hungry."

Ron took a swig of juice and wiped his mouth on his sleeve. "Those two girls in your dormitory came into the common room after you left, raving on about how you'd gone mad and run off."

"I was studying. They were annoying."

"Mm," Ron grunted, satisfied. He turned his attention back to his breakfast, seemingly unaware of the mildly repulsed look on Hermione's face as she watched him mow through his food. Ginny chuckled to herself. Harry was sitting beside Ron; he smiled at her faintly. He probably had it in his head that she was still fawning all over him in her head and didn't want to encourage her much. It wasn't that he wasn't good-looking – oh, but he was – and she definitely wouldn't mind him as her boyfriend, but Ginny felt very much like she had grown up in the past few months, and Harry really _was _just another boy. A handsome boy, certainly, but she had realized that it was a waste of energy to pine away.

Not that giving up the pining had helped much. She forked eggs and rashers onto her plate forcefully. No males ever took a good look at her, except Neville Longbottom, who apparently found her the least terrifying of all the girls in Gryffindor, and possibly Colin Creevey, whom she suspected might have a tiny crush on her.  

"A sickle for your thoughts, Gin," Ron mumbled.

"A whole sickle? My thoughts are valuable indeed," she grinned. "Did I look cross? I was just – er – thinking that I should get to work on my Transfiguration paper. It's due on Wednesday's class and it's supposed to be three and half feet of parchment long and I haven't got a single word written." This was not a lie; Ginny had the Weasley gift of procrastination. She intended to do it over the weekend, hopefully in the secret room behind the painting. Hopefully it wouldn't interfere with her newfound voracious reading; really, it was marvellous to be allowed to read books that most of the other students weren't. It was marvellous to have secrets.

"What?" Hermione, who had her notes scattered in front of her, and had been tuning them out until this announcement, looked positively ill. "That's only five days from now!" she exclaimed in a genuinely horrified tone. "Seriously, you ought to be down in the library right this minute, where there aren't any interruptions."

"Aw, come off it, Hermione," Ron laughed. "Just write really big, Gin. Like in eight-centimetre-high letters. Works for me every time." He motioned with his hands to indicate the size of his handwriting.

"McGonagall's not stupid," Hermione protested. "And, as I recall, _you _scored sixty-two percent on your last Transfiguration essay, Ron." She said this as if it were a crime severe enough to put a person in Azkaban.

"I know," he beamed proudly. "And I thought I wasn't going to pass it!"

Hermione was suitably affronted. "Honestly!"

Ginny looked away in amusement – Hermione and Ron, it seemed, would never quit bickering – and caught a glimpse of a figure slipping out of the Great Hall, trying to appear unnoticeable. It was Draco Malfoy – hunched over slightly, and pulling his robes around himself. Now why in the world wasn't he walking about with his rich little snob nose poked high in the air like usual? Ginny watched for a brief second – Malfoy's behaviour was seeming stranger and stranger, and quite suspicious, in the past few days. She couldn't rule possession out; it really did seem like the most likely explanation. _I wonder if he's finally gone and snapped_, she quipped mentally, except somehow, it was humourless.

***

Draco had taken the train to Hogsmeade and travelled by Floo at precisely the time Lucius had demanded of him. His only class of the day – Arithmancy at nine o'clock – had flown by in an unremarkable blur. His studies were beginning to hurt, he knew, but suddenly that seemed unimportant. And, truly, when had it ever been important? His name and his family assured him wealth and success whether he tried hard or not. It was hard to concentrate on school when it seemed as if vigilant studying would make no difference in the end.

Friday night was what he had expected. He'd appeared in the Malfoy fireplace and was greeted with a curt nod from his father and a stiff, spindly hug from his mother. He spent the evening boredly looking through the books in their library, all of which he'd already flipped through a thousand times, and listening to Narcissa's piano playing, which always seemed to echo through the house no matter which room he was in. He had liked to listen to her play as a child, but now the sound made him unreasonably angry.

Narcissa was the proud owner of an expensive antique Schreunfeldt piano – Schreunfeldt being the finest, oldest, and most-established maker of magical musical instruments in all of England – but even without the magical enchantments that compensated for a player's uneven rhythm, missed keys, or improper pedalling, Narcissa would still been considered an accomplished pianist. Of course, she played only melodies composed by magical composers, many of which required some subtle spellcasting as they were performed. The present piece floating through Malfoy Manor was a rather haunting and beautiful melody, languid and deliberately imprecise, each note pounded out like an individual sentence on it own. Draco felt it was appropriate as he scanned through the stacks of dusty books. Much like the entire manor, the library was stately, regal, yet melancholy.

He came to what had been his favourite section as a child – that which contained the books relating the Malfoy family. There were histories compiled by his ancestors, all with dull, moving sepia photographs, and, more recently, there were Lucius' and Narcissa's schoolbooks and yearbooks from Hogwarts. He pulled out one from their seventh year and flipped it open, almost carelessly. There were Potter's bloody mum and dad, waving and smiling and not knowing they'd be dead within three years. There was bloody Professor Lupin, looking pale and sickly but still smiling brightly. Snape was there, too, looking murderous as usual, with his dark eyebrows knitted together. And there was his mum, with her lip curled up like it always was. And – finally – he turned to the page with the his father, wearing a prefect badge and a trademark sneer. There was one photo of Lucius and Snape, along with Avery and the elder Crabbe and Goyle, with their arms slung carelessly around each other. The five Slytherin boys of his father's year. None were smiling, save for Avery's rather maniacal grin; they all had grim, tight-lipped looks about their faces.

Draco slammed the book shut.

For the rest of the evening, he paced about, doing nothing in particular, until it was an appropriate hour to go to bed. He realized, upon crawling under the blankets, that he had forgotten to attend dinner with his parents. They hadn't called him down, but they should have – but, then again, Narcissa's playing had been constant throughout the evening; he could even hear it now, fluttering through the fireplace at the foot of his bed. Perhaps things were more strained between his mother and his father than he'd thought, if they were no longer taking dinner together.

Not that it mattered.

Saturday morning and Saturday afternoon were more of the same. He ate breakfast with his mother, separated by the long dinner table, not really talking to each other. The rest of the day he spent reading up on schoolwork, simply because he had nothing better to do, and it seemed the most logical way to occupy his time without incurring Lucius' anger.

The Death Eaters went on the attack Saturday night.

This time, it was a home Draco recognized. Not elegant, but not run-down like the Weasley hellhole. A small, squat, well-kept home, belonging to the Brocklehursts – two parents working for the Ministry, the father an Auror, the mother in International Magical Co-Operation, and two children at Hogwarts.

One of the group used _alohomora _to open the door – which was stupidly uncharmed – and they crept inside silently, single-file, as if part of a formal procession.

Only the father was there. Isaiah Brocklehurst, who, like the Finch-Fletchleys, was asleep in his bed. Draco wondered at this for a moment; it seemed very uncourageous, indeed, to sneak up on an enemy while he slept. But being a Slytherin – a Malfoy – a Death Eater – all of it – was about deviousness and underhandedness, wasn't it? He felt very heavy and tired. 

Brocklehurst was instantly flung up into the air by several Death Eaters wands, and spun about, much like those muggles had been, all that time ago at the World Cup. He was screaming, and Draco heard a Silencing Charm fly out of someone's mouth. He couldn't tell quite who. But he could tell who it was that stepped forward then – the same person possessing the fierce grin in his father's yearbook. Avery. The Death Eaters allowed Brocklehurst to hover in the air a minute longer, then the Auror was dropped abruptly onto the floor, where he instantly scrambled for his wand off the night-table. Avery picked it up and snapped it in half.

"Bastards," Brocklehurst mouthed through the Silencing Charm; the odd pantomime of speech was so absurd, so clownish, so out-of-place, that Draco's throat filled with bile. He tried to close his eyes and found he couldn't. They remained open to witness Avery drawing his own wand from his robes, slowly, as if savouring the experience.

"No." Lucius raised a hand to stall Avery. "No, let – let my son."

Draco felt as if he'd punched in the stomach. "Wh – what?"

"You heard me," Lucius said coolly. He indicated Brocklehurst, who was burying his face into the floor. "It is unfair of us to have all the amusement to ourselves. We must allow for the skills of youth. Kill him."

"You want to me to cast—"

"The Killing Curse." Lucius clapped him on the back, as casually and quickly as he would have if he were encouraging his son prior to a particularly important Quidditch match. "Come on, then."

His hand shaking, Draco pointed his wand down at Isaiah Brocklehurst. The prone man's body was still spasming from the after-effects of the Cruciatus Curse. Draco doubted that he could have moved if he wanted to. He tipped the wand up so it was aimed straight at Brocklehurst's forehead. Could he actually do it? The words themselves were so simple! _Avada Kedavra_, that would be all he would have to say, and it would be done. It seemed to easy, too cowardly a way to kill a man; there ought to be blood and struggle, he reasoned.

"Do it!" shouted Lucius, and now his voice was edging on hysteria. Draco felt his father pull at his collar and shake him roughly. It was an odd sensation; he rocked on his feet without really experiencing the pain Lucius meant for him to feel. "Do it now, you little coward!"

The other Death Eaters joined the chorus – slow, contemptuous.

"Kill him, boy—"

"I'd have expected better from a Malfoy."

"Do it!" Lucius' voice was high above them all.

"I CAN'T!" Draco screamed, and the room went quiet. Isaiah Brocklehurst's eyes went wide, and, Draco noted, a little hopeful. "I can't kill him," Draco whispered fiercely, and his wand slipped out of his hand and dropped to the floor. He fixed his eyes on it, unable to look back at Lucius, even with the masks on. _Don't let them think I have betrayed them._

He never got to see what happened, precisely, to Isaiah Brocklehurst, because Lucius had instantly grabbed him by the collar, like a mother lion to a cub, and hauled him out of the room. But Draco did hear the Killing Curse, uttered near-inaudible behind them, and he gritted his teeth beneath his mask, thinking of the tiny speckle of hope that had dared to appear in Brocklehurst's eyes. Then the thought was shaken out – Lucius slammed Draco up against the wall.

"What the hell were you thinking?" Lucius leaned down, and his still-masked face was like a demon gleaming. "Why didn't you do it? You know I dislike weakness, boy. Are there things you aren't telling me?"

"I'm … I'm sorry, Father." He used the name without thinking about it and his mouth suddenly tasted sour-bitter. The horrible part about it was that most of him really was sorry, really was upset that he hadn't been able to do what Lucius had asked of him. _I am weak, I am weak, he is right, I am weak._

"Bloody shameful," Lucius growled. He pulled Draco again, roughly, so that their foreheads were nearly touching. "A Malfoy is not weak. A Malfoy does not back away like a coward. A Malfoy knows to respect his name and remember all that it signifies, all that it stands for. Have I made myself clear?"

"Yes. Sir." Draco hated the knot of fear that was uncoiling in his stomach. It seemed implicitly wrong that he should be afraid of his own father, and he closed his eyes, hating the salty tears that were welling up in them. _I am weak. _"I … I won't fail you next time."

"You had better not."

"I promise – promise I won't fail you." He did start to cry, quietly, and suddenly he was very happy to wearing the mask of a Death Eater, and doubly happy that he had restraint enough to allow his tears to fall in silence. He was a sorry excuse for a son and for a Malfoy. Lucius could not see his tears, the tears of a coward. They went back to Malfoy Manor in silence. Draco knew it was childish, but, as he wept to himself, he could only think that none of this was fair. _I'm not even old enough to Apparate legally. I can't cast the Killing Curse. I'm only seventeen._


End file.
